(The
Mourning Dove)
She lifts
her small head
Wet beak ablaze A sunbeam
Lodges in my
breast
(The
Reluctant Samurai)
Time I
write haiku
Battle
over, daimyo dead
Not so:
lose my head
(Banderas
Bay)
The
curve of the bay
Is beautiful,
cruel, like
My
bey’s scimitar